


Marked Zesty Item 69

by Byacolate



Series: Sugar Dough & Sushi Roll [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Food Service, Food Trucks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-20 10:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: Jesse McCree has a date with destiny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloomingcnidarians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloomingcnidarians/gifts).



> A silly sexy sequel commissioned by bloomingcnidarians! Congrats on your project!!

“Should I pack a bag?”

 

Jesse hisses, slipping his piping hot tamal into a bun. Once his lunch is cushioned by a thick roll and his fingers are free of danger, he turns from the steamer to the metal window, half open. Without question, this is the first time Hanzo has dropped by his stand. Jesse snatches the hairnet from his head, flinging it into the garbage and ruffling his hair up as he shuffles over to the window.

 

“We’re closed, pumpkin,” he tuts, tapping the sign hanging lopsided from the window. The smell of the guajolota wafts through the window, drawing Hanzo’s eyes. Jesse watches his nostril’s flare with a grin before he’s startled out of his own flirtation. “Wait, what’s this about a bag?”

 

Hanzo’s dark eyes return to Jesse’s as he folds those impressive arms over his chest.

 

“To your home,” he supplies, one eyebrow ticking upward. “This evening. Should I pack a bag?”  


Jesse blinks. “Uh, pardon my slackjaw, I just thought I might be dreamin’.”

 

A huff of breath from Hanzo’s nose holds the shape of laughter, and Jesse’ll be damned if it doesn’t remind him of a dragon. Kind of stoic. Kind of cute. “Is that a no?”

 

“Well hell, sugar, you know damn well it ain’t!” Jesse leans over on his elbows, guajolota plum forgotten. “Just don’t wanna make you feel obliged or nothin’, is all.”

 

“I am the one who asked,” says Hanzo, the genius. “It was I who did not wish to presume.”

 

Jesse shakes the guajolota at him. “That’s real sweet, sugar, but you presume away. You’re a real thinker, Shimada, you know that? Smart.”

 

One step further brings Hanzo flush against the window. He doesn’t always have height on his side, but he can rest his elbows too, forearms folded over one another as he leans right on in. Jesse can’t help but let his eyes wander over Hanzo’s face - all the sharp angles, the bold slope of his nose, the proud bow of his lips. He’s a damn good kisser, real bossy and soft, his teeth perfectly aligned with sharp canines Jesse discovered with his tongue before his eyes. Maybe he could see them if he got Hanzo to laugh, but his brain feels like pudding with those stony eyes focused up at him. “Gosh, you’re pretty.”

 

“May I have this?”

 

An unsteady “whuh” is all Jesse can manage before Hanzo deftly swipes the guajolota from his slack fingers. Even though it must be steaming hot, Hanzo doesn’t flinch as he takes a delicate bite at the corner of the bun. He’d only made one to get back at Gabe and Sombra for making, and subsequently cleaning out of spicy raspados on his day off.

 

Truth be told, he much preferred Hanzo’s reaction to whatever Gabriel and Sombra’s might have been.

 

“It’s, uh - that’s got a bite to it,” Jesse warns as a thick fresh chunk of jalapeño disappears between Hanzo’s teeth, but Hanzo’s dead stare has him lifting his hands in forfeit. Jesse files away Hanzo’s penchant for spice as Item 69 in the giant filing cabinet in his brain marked Fatal Attraction. “You ain’t my normal clientele.”

 

Hanzo’s smirk was filed away long ago as Item Número Uno.

 

He tosses a fiver on the window and pulls a napkin from the metal tin as he backs away. “Your peppers are child’s play, McCree. I hope you come armed with something that _truly_ bites tonight.”

 

McCree watches the confident set of Hanzo’s shoulders as he goes, rubbing floury fingers through his beard.

 

“Well,” he mutters to himself, brushing over his lips. “I’ll be damned.”

 

He jumps when Gabe’s heavy boots slam onto the metal step of the truck back. “Did you -- do I smell guajolota, you petty son of a bitch?”

 

* * *

 

HANZO⭐⭐  
 _Last seen 11:42 AM_

 

_2:10 SENT_ [hate watching you go, but i love watching you leave ;^)]

 

_2:19 RECEIVED_ [I heard shouting. Shall I inform your next of kin?]

 

_2:19 SENT_ [aw u worried about me? ;^)))]

 

_2:23 RECEIVED_ [No longer. Your departed spirit is talkative. I hope it can also cook.]

 

_2:23 SENT_ [you’d better boo-lieve it ;^)))))))]

 

_2:26 SENT_ [hanzo]

 

_2:28 SENT_ [hanzo that was a real knee-slapper]

 

_2:34 SENT_ [hanzo was the power of my humor too strong i’ll dial it back]

 

_2:40 SENT_ [hanzo sugar pie i promise never to joke again if it’ll bring u back from the grave pinkie swear]

 

* * *

 

GUNJI SHIMADASAN  
 _Online_

 

_2:51 RECEIVED_ [Hi ho silver! What’s up cowboy!]

 

_2:52 RECEIVED_  [Allegedly, Hanzo never wants to talk to you again.]

_2:53 RECEIVED_  [I think it’s the pickle fumes making him delirious because he laughed at your shitty joke.]

 

_2:53 RECEIVED_  [It was really bad!!! I think you owe me a cup of horchata for even gazing upon it!]

 

_2:54 RECEIVED_ [I hope you don’t mind if I steal it tho.]

 

_2:54 RECEIVED_ [I already have.]

 

_2:54 RECEIVED_ [I think it’s going to get me laid.]

 

_2:55 RECEIVED_ [Must be in the delivery.]

 

_2:57 SENT_ [i can’t boo-lieve this]

 

* * *

 

HANZO⭐⭐  
 _Last seen 3:12 PM_

 

_4:43 SENT_ [you like sweets n pickled vegetables, and you like thievin spicy tamales from my hands]

 

_4:44 SENT_ [what else do u like?]

 

_4:44 SENT_ [i’m all ears]

 

_4:46 SENT_ [had a meal plan, but i could probably make u a pickle cake]

 

_4:46 SENT_ [spicy pickle cake]

 

_4:46 SENT_ [sounds kinda festive]

 

_4:47 SENT_ [deep fry it and it could be ten kinds of dumplin, dumplin]

_4:47 SENT_ [hell i love dumplings. u serve those, don’t u?]

 

_4:48 SENT_ [i could really go for a bunch of the fried ones. ]

 

_4:48 SENT_ [steamed ones too. gyoza, right? u oughta teach me to make those. full of spicy pickles.]

 

_4:59 RECEIVED_ [I am partial to mildly sweet fruits as well.]

 

_4:59 SENT_ [i’m partial to ur mildly sweet f]

 

_5:00 SENT_ [didn’t mean to send that sombra bumped into me D^:]

_5:19  SENT_ [dinner rush gabe’s growlin i’m still shittin my chaps]

 

_5:37 SENT_ [unless u like]

 

_5:42 SENT_ [unless u like shit]

 

_5:49 SENT_ [ty passes, shit, i didn’t realize i never sent that last bit]

 

* * *

 

GUNJI SHIMADASAN  
 _Online_

 

_5:50 RECEIVED_ [Idk how you have the time to blow up his phone but I’ve heard your ringtone at least 100 times the past hour :0]

 

_5:53 SENT_ [do me a favor and drop his phone in ur frier. i’ll buy a new one]

 

_5:54 RECEIVED_ [Tempting!]

 

_5:54 RECEIVED_ [But I think I’m more interested in witnessing the fruit of your sin.]

 

_5:57 SENT_ [thanks i’ll throw my damn self in the frier instead]

 

_5:58 RECEIVED_ [So long space cowboy]

 

* * *

 

HANZO⭐⭐  
 _Online_

 

_6:47 RECEIVED_ [Give me your address. I will see you at 21:00.]


	2. Chapter 2

_ Pop. _

 

“You wanted to know about the dragon vore brothers’ suppliers, right?”

 

Jesse pats his wet hands off onto a towel as he glances over to Sombra who blows another bright pink bubble as she flicks through her phone.

 

“Yeah, you got any idea-”

 

“Please. Who do you think you’re talking to?” 

 

Without looking up she turns and hops from the back of the truck, and Jesse claps Gabe on the shoulder as he passes.

 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going,” Gabriel asks, dry as a bone as he cleans out the cash register. 

 

“Reconnaissance, boss. Good for business, good for pleasure, good for the goose and the gander… you know how it is.”

 

“Huh. Sounds like an excuse to skip out on scrubbing your spot.”

 

Jesse tosses his hair net into the trash along with his gloves before stepping down off the truck. “You know how it is!”

 

McCree knows the market isn’t far, but Sombra bullies him into her car nonetheless and cruises from the business district into streets built for leisure. Once they park only a handful of blocks from the truck, it’s a short walk to a colorful, bustling alley packed with vendors. 

 

Sombra points out several, chatting amicably with a good few she seems real familiar with for someone who’s only staked out the joint once or twice. 

 

She talks some salted caramel pecans out of a blond from Indiana, and an Ethiopian couple out of some fritters, both of which she saves half to hand to a small child tinkering with a robotic… horse? 

 

“What kind of secret double life do you lead?” McCree asks. Sombra winks. 

 

“Ah-ah-ah. You will never know.” 

 

Beyond the young robotics engineer is a very upscale shop window, clear of vendors, and here Sombra stops. 

 

“I have some business with a beautiful woman. Your men are near the end on the left. You can’t miss them - tall, bald, radiating enough purity to sear flesh.”

 

They are, in fact, quite a challenge to miss. Their tent is a bright and cheerful yellow, backed and bordered with colorful prayer flags. An exceptionally tall man in silver and white greets him, and McCree feels like he’s stepped into a confessional rather than a produce lot.

 

“Welcome,” says Would-Be Silver Fox. “Is there anything I can do to assist you today?”

 

“No sir, just browsing,” says Jesse, struck suddenly with the urge to scrub under his nails. He’s granted a nod in response as the man in white tactfully leaves him to himself to help another customer.

 

The fruit and vegetables are piled high aplenty, lined in neat rustic wooden crates. There are several people milling about, including two more figures with shaved heads. Jesse’s just testing a few persimmons when a young man in red and yellow appears at his elbow. 

 

“I thought I might have recognized your face,” he says in a voice perfectly suited for lullabies. Jesse smiles. 

 

“Beg your pardon?”

 

“You make excellent horchata. Genji brings me a cup when he has the time.”

 

Putting two and two together, Jesse shakes a finger at him. “Get that order a lot from 'im, so... pretty often, huh.”

 

Beatifically, the young man smiles. “Several times a week.”

 

“Fancy that. And here I thought that second cup was always for his brother.”

 

Between them, a basket is handed to Jesse. He takes it, tying off the bag of persimmons and dropping them inside before holding out a hand. “Jesse.”

 

“Zenyatta,” he says, and takes Jesse’s hand. His fingers are longer than expected, even of someone his size. It isn’t often Jesse McCree’s hand is so easily dwarfed by another. “Genji speaks of you often.”

 

Eying up a crate of something that looks like the unfortunate lovechild of an avocado and a head of cauliflower, McCree wanders over for a feel. “I’m not the only one. Figured the drinks were for Hanzo, but he sure isn’t shy about where the rest of it goes. Kept recommending y’all to us. Figured it was a little biased, but I thought I should look you over. Give you a fair shake.”

 

“Those are custard apples. They are quite nice.”

 

Jesse grabs a couple and drops them in a bag. “Sounds cute. Reckon I’ll try anything once!”

 

He spots a pretty red pile of pomegranates and nods to himself. Pomegranates are romantic, aren’t they? Sweet jeweled fruit, symbolism. And if Hanzo gets rowdy he can launch seeds at Jesse. 

 

Pleasant but mostly quiet by Jesse’s side, Zenyatta’s presence drives Jesse to search for something to say. “You got a good selection,” is what he finally manages to pull out of his ass, squeezing a few pomelos before rolling them into a bag as well. “Heard a good bit about you folks.”

 

“Better than a bad bit,” says Zenyatta. A steady stare in his direction doesn’t tell Jesse whether he’s joking or not, so he laughs anyway, clapping Zenyatta on the shoulder. 

 

“I’m settin’ about makin’ a supper fit to impress a king. What would you recommend?”

 

By the time Jesse lugs his basket to the cash box, it weighs about half as much as his mother’s favorite bloodhound, and he’s positive he couldn’t possibly get this much nutrition in his body before it rots. 

 

Musing this aloud to Zenyatta as he rings Jesse up, he hums thoughtfully. “I believe you will find our mutual friend endeared to you for a gift such as this.”

 

“Whassat, a fruit basket?”

 

Zenyatta takes the cash from his hand, swiftly handing him his change and receipt. “A thoughtful gift that serves a purpose. Thank you for your patronage. It was good to meet you, Jesse McCree.”

 

“Yeah,” Jesse grins with a two finger salute. “Likewise.”

 

Swinging by the tech shop again, Jesse finds Sombra waiting outside on her phone. Without looking up, she falls in beside him, chewing on another wad of gum. Jesse can smell the spearmint two feet away. 

 

“You get all that for your boyfriend?” she asks, cracking a bubble. Jesse lifts the straw basket with his prosthetic, flexing. 

 

“Think he’ll like it?”

 

Sombra shrugs and dips her hand in to fish around inside. With a little yelp, Jesse jerks it away. She snickers, cuffing his shoulder when he lifts the basket out of reach.

 

“What, no payment for my reconnaissance? I’m wounded.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah. Tell it to your  _ beautiful woman.” _


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you packing a bag?”

 

With every intent to ignore his brother, Hanzo fishes his travel toothbrush kit from a drawer and neatly tucks it into his satchel.

 

“Your silence is an admission of guilt,” Genji informs him, hopping up onto the bathroom counter. Blessedly, he takes out his phone and begins to tap away at it for several quiet minutes. However, once Hanzo zips up his satchel and retreats to his bedroom, Genji slides off the counter and follows. 

 

“Have you nothing better to do than -”

 

“Not a chance! I want to see what you’re packing for your cowboy slumber party.”

 

Hanzo levels him with a scowl that appears mostly ineffective before Genji flops sideways on his bed. He props himself up on an elbow, cupping his cheek in one hand. “Does McCree know you’re packing a bag?”   
  


“I asked him if it was wise,” Hanzo tells him. Genji snickers, dropping his phone on the bed. 

 

“Forward, but not _ too  _ forward, huh, brother.”

 

“Be silent, nuisance.”

 

His closet is far from empty, but it has been… quite some time since Hanzo last… dated? Accepted dates? Certainly since he was in the home of a man he’d consider his rival to be fed, and then… 

 

“Wear the black one - the light vee you got on sale fifty years ago.”

 

“Two,” Hanzo corrects, “maybe three,” but it’s a good idea - he finds the shirt on a hanger to one far side, for he doesn’t wear it often. Maybe once or twice if he’s out with a younger crowd, but mostly just on laundry days when all else fails. It’s tight on him - that had been the point, impulsively at the time two or three summers ago when he’d shaved his hair into an undercut topknot, pierced his mortal form in several uncomfortable places, and retrofitted his entire wardrobe.

 

It’s soft, and a deep stormy grey more than a black, but he isn’t going to open that can of worms again. It would not be without its advantages; Jesse often does appear quite taken with his arms.

 

“Or that hideous sweater I got you for Christmas a thousand years ago.”

 

“Also two,” Hanzo says, folding the shirt up and tucking it in his bag. “I do not need you to dress me.”

 

In a deceptively genuine tone, Genji presses a hand to his chest. “Do you not? This is news to me.” 

 

“Ah. This is because you know no further than the tip of your own nose.”

 

Genji makes a noise of deep despair for the same reason Hanzo grimaces directly after the words leave his mouth. “Ugh, you sound like  _ Father.” _

 

“I am… living with the consequences.”

 

Jesse McCree seems a casual man, but Hanzo does not want to downplay the kindness of his gesture, inviting an intended into one’s home to feed them. So he showers by seven thirty, and with time to spare, stands in a towel in front of his closet again for something fairly casual but also indicative of the circumstances.

 

Past Genji’s hideous scratchy sweater gift and a Hawaiian shirt Hana Song had sent him from her holiday the previous year, Hanzo finds a light pullover in black and a deep blue undershirt Genji fondly refers to as his asshole polo. Slipping into a pair of hopeful black silk briefs and the same dark jeans he wore on his first date, Hanzo steps out into the living room where Genji lies sprawled over the entire couch. The television droning on with an old mech cartoon is just background noise for Genji, so completely immersed in his phone is he. 

  
Hanzo tucks his hands in his pockets and moves in closer, kicking at the cushion by Genji’s head. Dropping the phone onto his chest, Genji looks up. Gives him a once-over. “Very business casual of you, brother.”

 

“Thank you.” When a whim of mischief overtakes him, he lifts his hands to fasten the highest button on the asshole polo, dropping them only when Genji kicks at his flank.

 

“Shithead. You look fine. Really uptight, but at least it’s not a suit.”

 

“A suit?” Hanzo rubs at his beard. “I will keep that in mind for the next time.” 

 

With a monstrous gagging noise, Genji grabs the phone from his chest and pulls his knees up. “Wanna watch Gundam reruns until you go?”

 

“Not this time. I need to bring a gift.” Hanzo pats himself down for his wallet before backtracking to his room for the satchel. “I am taking the bike. Where are your keys?”

 

“Jacket pocket. Wait -!”

 

Hanzo doesn’t look up as ungainly thumps approach his bedroom door. Genji spreads his arms out as Hanzo slings the bag over his shoulder. “I need the bike!”   
  
“For what?” 

 

“For...!” Genji stops himself with a sigh. “No, it’s fine. Take the bike.” 

 

Hanzo snorts, clapping his brother on the shoulder as he passes. “Take the truck.”

 

“I’m not picking him up in the truck, you -”

 

Enduring his brother’s scorn as he makes his last round through the apartment is old hat. He gets a  pillow to the head when he rifles through Genji’s jacket pocket and waves with the key ring around a finger. 

 

“I will see you tomorrow,” Hanzo says, slipping through the door. “Don’t let Zenyatta make a mess of the kitchen.”

 

He closes the door on Genji’s mortally offended expression, smirking to himself all the way to the car lot.

  
  


* * *

 

MCCREE  
Last Seen 8:16

 

8:22 SENT [Whiskey or bourbon?]

 

8:24 RECEIVED [oh a lil of this a lil of that]

 

8:24 RECEIVED [how’d u figure the secret to my sauce when u aint even tried it]

 

8:25 SENT [My mistake. I was referring to the scent of your cologne.]

 

8:25 SENT [I assumed it was cologne. It was all I could smell in your beard.]

 

8:26 RECEIVED [yowch!!!! pow, right in the kisser!!!]

 

8:26 RECEIVED [jokes at the expense o my personal hygiene aside, im a whiskey man]

 

8:27 RECEIVED [and urself?]

 

8:27 RECEIVED [ ;^) ]

 

8:28 SENT [Neither are my tastes so unpredictable or unrefined.]

 

8:28 RECEIVED [LMAO!!]

 

8:28 RECEIVED [well hell honey pie]

 

8:28 RECEIVED [we both know THAT don’t smack of truth]


	4. Chapter 4

“You sure as shit come prepared, don’t you?”

 

McCree looks him up and down from the open door to his apartment. Hanzo maintains an even expression as warm light radiates from the inside, along with soft music and the heady scent of a home cooked meal.

 

“I find it preferable to the alternative. This is for you.” Hopeful that his posture doesn’t reveal his nerves, Hanzo offers the amber bottle of whiskey, and Jesse receives it across the threshold.

 

“Oh! Well that’s mighty kind of you,” he says, honeyed brown eyes lighting up as he leans back against the frame of the door. “This is one of my favorites! Got a bite to it, but it’s a little sweet… uh, come on in!”

 

Hastily, McCree steps back, gesturing with his head further inside. Readjusting the bag over his shoulder, Hanzo follows.

 

Under the scent of simmering vegetables, meats, and spices, Hanzo smells Jesse here. He knows the scent from only the brief moments they have been close enough to touch. It may be Jesse’s cologne, or whatever he uses to keep his hair so smooth, but it is overt in its recognizability. It's a crisp and woodsy scent, sandalwood and autumn leaves. Hanzo is probably romanticizing a niche brand of shampoo, but he remembers it well now that he can smell it again.

 

Guiding Hanzo into the living room, Jesse waves him off and tells him to make himself at home.

 

The living room is full of personal effects - pictures of people Hanzo doesn't know and people that he does. Old knickknacks and wooden carvings are stacked high on shelves along with several books he has never heard of before. Where he may have expected to see western novels, Hanzo instead finds several volumes of science fiction. Several look old and worn enough to be considered classics to anyone privy to the subculture; he is sure, in fact, that is brother would recognize many more of these titles than he ever could.

 

Outside the night is warm, but through the open window a comfortable breeze drifts in.

 

“You take it straight?” Jesse asks, striding back into the cozy room with a pair of glasses with ice and the bottle of whiskey. “I got some coke around here somewhere, or water, but uh…”

 

Hanzo accepts a glass, holding it out for Jesse to pour. “I am not in the habit of drinking whiskey. Straight will do.”

 

“So you gonna stay evasive, or are you gonna tell me what you really like to drink?” Jesse chuckles, filling his own glass and tapping it to Hanzo’s.

 

Hanzo eyes him for a long silent moment as he lets the first mouthful of whiskey roll a burning wave down his throat and into his belly. “Sake is to my liking.”

 

“Sake, huh?” McCree holds his gaze up close as he takes a swallow himself. The instrumental melody drifting from the antique radio settles over the silence like a blanket. Like the breeze from the window, or a soft kiss from a beautiful man. “S’pose I could've figured that out on my own, huh.”

 

“It is unseemly to presume,” Hanzo sniffs, taking another dip. “But… perhaps you might have, yes. What are you making?”

 

Jesse’s eyes light up as he finally takes a step back. “Wait’ll you see, sweet pea. I’m hoping you like it.” He pulls out his phone and checks a timer with a little nod. “C’mon, it’s almost time for the best part.”

 

Hanzo follows him into the kitchen, which is a fragrant and organized mess. Spice jars are clustered to the side of the stove where a wide low pan full of rice and meat and vegetables rests steaming. A bowl of prawn shells and empty lobster tails sits near the sink, where an assortment of dishes are piled. Jesse pulls the pan off of its burner to the cool side of the stove and clicks it off. A pristine pair of plates, one large spoon, and two forks are set apart from the rest as Jesse whistles, pulling a rinsed cutting board over the counter and pulling a knife from its board.

 

“You like peas?” he asks, snappily slicing a lemon into six wedges. Hanzo watches him press them into the broad pan in the shape of a sunburst. A funny little niggle of amusement tickles Hanzo’s chest like the burst of champagne bubbles.

 

“I do not mind them,” he answers, leaning a hip against the counter and folding his arms across his chest. With a short nod, Jesse dips into another ceramic bowl and scoops out a handful of peas, evenly spotting the rice. With damp lemony hands, Jesse tears a fair handful of leaves from a few parsley stalks and garnishes the paella before turning to wash his hands.

 

“So… which is the best part?” Hanzo asks, lifting his chin. Jesse grins at him over a shoulder.

 

“Why, tuckin’ in, of course.”

  
  
  


 

Hanzo does not mind admitting that that is, in fact, the best part. Jesse’s paella, he learns, is a recipe perfected by his grandmother and taught to Jesse only after years of pleading, begging, and bribery. It’s acidic and savory with a satisfying kick of spice, and when Hanzo tells him so, Jesse preens like a peacock.

 

“Yeah? Well hell, pumpkin, I sure was hoping you’d like it,” he smiles, knuckling at his lips. He keeps Hanzo’s glass and plate full as they fall into a conversation-turned-debate about favored traditional rice dishes. Hanzo falls so intensely into the playful squabble that after making a particularly succinct point about white rice, he catches himself leaning forward on both elbows, fork brandished like a baton.

 

He sits upright with a sniff, spearing a piece of lobster tail in his victory as Jesse leans forward himself. Eyes narrowed, he takes the large spoon and scrapes the toasted rice at the bottom of the pan.

 

“Be that as it may,” he coolly retorts, layering a crispy spoonful onto the side of Hanzo’s plate, “don’t believe I’ve ever found socarrat at the bottom of a rice cooker. So it can’t be all that divine.”

 

Even though he knows that McCree is a generous spirit, and that he’s trying to prove a point, Hanzo feels warmth bloom in his gut that the first of the coveted socarrat was offered to him. He tamps it down as though the whiskey is to blame, and lowers his gaze as he takes a bite.

 

It's delicious, of course. Salty and crunchy, pure concentrated flavor. The anticipation on McCree’s face as Hanzo takes a moment to appreciate it is a terribly familiar thing.

 

“It is excellent,” Hanzo allows, soaking in Jesse’s smug beaming. “However -”

 

“Now just you wait a minute, let my ego absorb that compliment ‘fore you go and salt my forgotten wounds.”

 

Obligingly, Hanzo takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully while McCree chips off more of the socarrat for himself.

 

“Alright, it's locked in,” Jesse says, beckoning with his fork. “Do your worst.”

 

Hanzo shrugs. “I have no criticism for you,” he says. Jesse’s eyebrows rocket skyword.

 

“Oh ho, beg your pardon? Thought you were gearin’ up for somethin’ good.”

 

Waving a hand through the air as if to dispel the notion, Hanzo scoffs. “Not everything I say is meant to feed your victim complex.”

 

“My wh-”

 

“I was only going to correct your earlier presumption. You are mistaken that we do not have our own dishes that yield socarrat. To us, it is _okoge_.”

 

Leaning forward again, mouth slack with an aborted protest, Jesse blinks. “Oh! Well, I reckon I’m always happy to be proved wrong about how much socarrat there is on God’s green earth.”

 

“Hm.” Hanzo takes a sip of his whiskey, sighing quietly for the burn and wistful memories of cold Hanamura nights. “Kamameshi is my favorite.”

 

“Yeah?” Jesse leans back in his seat, taking his glass in hand too. A quiet smile crosses Hanzo’s face at the memory.

 

“Yes. It is a dish cooked in an iron pot. We do not always eat the okoge; it is a means for enriched flavor.”

 

“Huh.”

 

Another sip drains Hanzo’s glass, and he places his hand over the top when McCree moves to pour him another. “At home - at our childhood home, it would be a special treat. Genji and I had our own pots served to us separately.” Genji would tap on the iron rim percussively until Grandfather scolded him to silence. Then he would flick rice at Hanzo when the adults were not looking. “We have one pot at home now, to share. It has been… some time since we have made kamameshi.”

 

Jesse finishes his glass and screws the cap on the whiskey bottle, putting it aside, half drunk. “You make that sound mighty nice. Think you might teach a man your iron pot rice secrets?”

 

With a hum, Hanzo taps his plate with a fork, thinking of Genji’s round-cheeked childish grin. He does, however, quash the urge to flick rice at McCree. “Perhaps if you would offer your paella technique in exchange.”

 

“Hey now,” Jesse starts, pointing a finger. “That’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

 

Hanzo sniffs. “Hah. And how do you know that the kamameshi is not mine?”

 

Jesse squints and scratches at his bearded jaw. “Huh. Touché.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I, uh. Got something for you.” 

 

Hanzo looks up from his phone, clicking away from the pic his brother had just sent of Zenyatta leafing through his collection of vintage mech cartoons. Jesse’s lips twist as he settles a basket on the table in front of Hanzo with an out of character level of delicacy. “Thought you might like this.”

 

Pulling the basket closer, Hanzo realizes that he recognizes the weave of it. Genji’s produce runs normally yield as many crates as he can fit on the back of his bike for the truck, but his personal indulgences always come in tightly woven wicker baskets just like this. 

 

“You bought these from the Shambali,” he muses, lifting a custard apple from within. He splits it apart with his thumbs, holding one half out to Jesse. 

 

“Huh? Oh.” He takes it with his prosthetic hand. “Yeah. Thought I’d try them out. Could be a good business opportunity.”

 

Lifting the spoon left out on the table, Hanzo dips into the sweet flesh and takes a bite. He hasn’t visited the Shambali in months, and he hasn’t tasted custard apple in far longer. “It could,” he agrees, tapping the spoon to his bottom lip in thought. “The Shambali tend their own crops. Their yield is bountiful the year ‘round.”

 

“You don’t say.” Jesse finds his chair again, pushing the custard apple slice up from the middle to take a bite straight from the flesh pushed up and split from the inverse fruit. “They got a greenhouse?”

 

Hanzo hums his confirmation. “Genji was the one to choose their services. They operate their monastic order and their farm from an old nursery on the edge of town.” As Genji had once described it, the greenhouses were overflowing with crops, and whatever technological advancements the Shambali had added to the abandoned site ran the operation like a dream. The ample indoor nursery space had apparently been converted for housing and worship. “Our partnership is informal, but it has not failed us in years of practice. I can only recommend them.”

 

Jesse seems to take this all to heart, sinking his teeth into a heavily seeded mouthful of custard apple. “Maybe coulda been I had more personal reasons, too.”

 

Hanzo scoops a bite out for himself, cleanly grazing the thick skin. “Yes, Genji also indulges regularly.”

 

Startled laughter erupts from across the table, and when Hanzo glances up, McCree is trying not to let a messy handful fall into his lap. He tips his palm up to his mouth to suck up the fruit, flicking his tongue out to clean the juice-sticky cradle of his thumb and forefinger. “Honey,” he chuckles, pulling Hanzo’s eyes away from his mouth to his eyes. “I wasn’t really talkin’ about myself.”

  
  


The breeze from the open window stirs up the scent of McCree’s space, and when Hanzo pulls a pomegranate apart, a fine mist of sweet-clean juice briefly bursts into the air before it dissipates. Hanzo has never truly liked pomegranates, or - perhaps he never believed them worth the effort of all their mess. Yet even so, he always finds himself relishing in the opportunity to try again, perhaps to find something he loves that he’s never found before that makes the endeavor worthwhile.

 

Jesse McCree has no such compunctions; he takes the half that Hanzo offers to him and tears several seeds from within, sucking all of them into his mouth at once. “Damn,” he says, eyebrows ticking upward. “That’s a sweet one.”

 

Following suit, Hanzo plucks one jewelled fruit and allows it to burst on his tongue. It is sweet - a mildly tart spark of flavor that trickles down his throat. It would be refreshing were it not for the obnoxious pit within. Hanzo swallows the first just to spite it. 

 

After spitting his seeds into a napkin, McCree takes a handful more and nods to himself. “Hoo. They should bottle this stuff. Could really turn a profit.”

 

A noncommittal grunt pushes itself free from Hanzo’s chest as he watches Jesse suck a smattering of juice from his thumb. “I do not think they are so capitalistically driven.”

 

WIth a snort, Jesse sits forward, both elbows to the table as he picks and plucks round seeds from the pomegranate’s thick cradle. “Don’t think I realized how easy it’d be to fall back into work talk.”

 

“It is no shameful thing,” Hanzo says, doing much the same with his. “It is our livelihood and our passion. We spend much of our time within four tight walls.”

 

“I hear ya, pumpkin,” Jesse says with a chuckle, tipping the palm full of seeds into his mouth. “Still, reckon I could’ve moved the conversation any old way. There are things I’d prefer to talk about, you know.”

 

A hum and a nod must feed well into statements that are nothing but paths to be wandered. “Horses.”

 

Jesse’s grin slips, and he blinks as he mechanically pulls his prosthetic to his mouth. “Beg your pardon?”

 

With wide eyes, Hanzo gestures around the room. He’s seen astonishingly little western paraphernalia, but in his experience, confidence goes a long way in substitution of fact. “Your accent, your sarape, your hat - you fit the description of a man who likes to talk about horses.” He takes in Jesse’s look of plum befuddlement. “Often.”

 

“Now just hold on a second here,” Jesse starts with a stern set of his eyebrows. “You callin’ me a weird horse kid?”

 

“Those were not my words,” Hanzo shrugs, popping a couple of seeds into his mouth. 

 

“Yeah, but that’s what you’re sayin’, you wily son of a gun.”

 

Hanzo looks up from the pomegranate into Jesse’s eyes. “Fill my mouth with whatever words you wish, cowboy.”

 

Aggressively dabbing at his prosthetic, Jesse mutters, “There sure as shit ain’t room for any of that with all the sass in there.”

 

He stands shortly after, leaving Hanzo to smile to himself like a fool in his absence. 

 

When McCree returns a few minutes later, he has a pair of mugs in hand and a tall copper coffee press. “Always like to end the day with a good cup of coffee. I figured even a mouthy one like yourself might be interested.”

 

“I would, thank you,” says Hanzo, primly, as Jesse sets a dark blue mug in front of him. Jesse pours him a steaming cup before he retreats to the kitchen again, only to return with a sugar bowl and a chipped milk pitcher. Hanzo stares for a moment, gaze flicking between Jesse and the sugar bowl. “You are a funny man, Jesse McCree.”

 

“Well, thank you kindly!” he says, straightening his spine before narrowing his eyes. “Wait, what for?”

 

Hanzo reaches out and slowly rotates the sugar bowl. Jesse claps a hand to his head as though he’d forgotten there was no hat atop. “You gotta be shitting me.”

 

“That is a powerful response,” Hanzo muses, turning the sugar bowl back around toward himself to examine the two painted horses galloping in soft earthy hues. “Do you not find them whimsical? Ah, you must. This does belong to you.”

 

Jesse sticks a spoon in the bowl with vitriol and Hanzo brushes his fingers over his budding grin. 

 

There’s a lull then, as the coffee his good mood warm him through. He brings forward the topic of business, as Jesse had, and as the cornerstone of his life is wont to do, that branches out into subjects more personal. Such things are not strictly comfortable for Hanzo, but with Jesse, he finds himself intrigued and hoping to intrigue. 

 

McCree briefly mentions his parents, but it is clear to Hanzo that his partner in business - Gabriel Reyes, the stony-faced wall of muscle - takes a paternal spotlight in Jesse’s life. The young woman with a bright sense of fashion that Genji loves so much is familiar to him already; she is the best seller of the sticky dango Hanzo makes on the side. According to Genji, she has also been quite generous with her praise over social media. 

 

When Hanzo tells him this, Jesse grunts. “Yeah, that’ll be her. Figures she’d lift up the competition. Must really like your sweets.” 

 

“They are worthy of praise,” Hanzo says, taking a delicate sip of his coffee. Jesse shakes a finger at him.   
  


“I’m gonna humor that confidence because it’s well-placed and exceptionally attractive, and I ain’t got a snappy comeback.”

 

Hanzo laughs quietly against the rim of his mug. “As you like.”

 

Jesse’s stern face melts slowly toward something warmer. His lips curl up at the sides, and the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. “Figure I like a lot of things. Mind if I share ‘em with you?” 


	6. Chapter 6

Hanzo’s hands feel overlarge as he helps Jesse tidy the table, returning the coffee dishes to the kitchen. It is as though his foolish body has never known attraction before, or anticipation. He sets the mugs in the sink so carefully they make practically no noise at all. Jesse does not seem to have this problem, setting the used press, bowl, and milk on the counter. He brushes past Hanzo, setting his prosthetic briefly at the small of Hanzo’s back as he returns the milk to the fridge beside him. 

 

When Jesse pulls away, Hanzo turns, back to the sink. Jesse gives him a smile as he leans against the counter opposite him, only a scant few feet away. 

 

“Want to watch a movie?” Jesse asks, pointing a thumb back toward the living room. The warm overhead kitchen light turns his beard a dark and silken brown.

 

“No,” Hanzo answers, pushing away from the sink and into Jesse’s space.

 

Coffee breath passes between them as Hanzo takes hold of the back of Jesse’s neck and pulls him down into a hungry kiss. It’s bitter, even though Hanzo’s coffee was sweet, and Jesse’s laughter puffs fragrant breaths over Hanzo’s mouth.    
  


Both of his arms fall around Hanzo’s waist, tugging him closer to the long stretch of his body. Hanzo missed this, in the car. He missed the strength of McCree’s hold, the way his arms are hard and his stomach is soft. The scratch of his beard, however, was never missed.

 

“Hey there,” McCree breathes, his tone low and humored. Hanzo leaves one hand grasping the back of McCree’s neck, drawing the other down the front of his shirt. Beneath a layer of fat over his chest, his pectorals are firm, and Jesse grunts when Hanzo feels over his softly rounded belly.

 

Hanzo feels McCree’s giggle reverberate through his body as Hanzo’s hand dips over his waist - interesting - and stalls at his thigh. 

 

“What’re you waiting for?” McCree hums, tipping his head and pillowing a kiss to the corner of Hanzo’s mouth. “I’m a man for grabbing, Mister Shimada.”

 

Hanzo drops his hand from the back of Jesse’s neck and rests it low on Jesse’s thighs like the other. “That is good to know,” he says, and securing his grip under Jesse’s ass, hefts him up. 

 

“Holy -!” Jesse yelps, and clutches at Hanzo’s shoulders as he’s hoisted up to the counter top, mouth agape. He’s even taller now, as Hanzo knew he would be, but the dazed look on his face makes the disparity all the more worthwhile. 

 

“Those, uh.” Jesse clears his throat, grip slackened just enough to allow him to drop his hands to Hanzo’s biceps. “Those ain’t just for show, huh.”

 

“Hah.” Hanzo pushes Jesse’s thighs apart and nestles himself between them. He tilts his chin up to look Jesse in the eye as he deftly snaps his belt buckle open. “Nothing about me is just for show.”

  
  
  
  
  


The juncture between McCree’s neck and shoulder blossoms prettily in the dark purplish red of a bruise worried there by Hanzo’s teeth and persistent mouth. Jesse sighs, cupping the back of Hanzo’s head as his hips twitch, pinned firmly to the counter by Hanzo’s left hand. Trapped between denim and cotton, his right feels the shape of Jesse, at attention within Hanzo’s palm. 

 

“You gonna touch me for real?” Jesse breathes, nose pressed to Hanzo’s temple. His heavy breaths and quaking thighs draw a smile to Hanzo’s lips. He presses it to the bruise on Jesse’s neck in lieu of an answer. 

 

Jesse McCree is thick in girth, and when Hanzo reaches deeper to press two fingers behind his balls, his body gives an almighty jerk. “Son of a-” 

 

“Be silent,” Hanzo chuckles, squeezing briefly. It earns him a mountain man’s whimper, so he does it again.    
  
This position is awkward for a great many things, but Hanzo resolves to endure. Jesse holds onto his shoulders for balance until he finally gives in, settling back on one elbow, then another. A spice jar falls to the side, poorly secured, and a wave of oregano heaps out. “Shit…” Jesse grunts. 

 

Hanzo presses an open-mouthed kiss to his collar bone. “Pay it no mind.”

 

Laughing breathlessly, Jessy wipes a hand over his face. “No mind, huh? Let’s pay it no mind when you’re the one in danger of getting oregano in dangerous places.” 

 

“Would you have me stop?” 

 

With a helpless laugh, Jesse runs a hand down his face. “Not if I can help it.” 


	7. Chapter 7

“I did not think so,” Hanzo huffs, nosing higher along Jesse’s neckline as he learns the shape of Jesse through his briefs. He can smell aftershave where the skin in smoothest; Hanzo kisses there too as Jesse pants against his temple. His hips shift restlessly under Hanzo’s grip, and Jesse lifts his organic hand to clutch at the hair bunched behind Hanzo’s skull when Hanzo traces the tip of his head through cotton.

 

“You’re killin’ me, honey,” he groans, breath and hips hitched. Then he giggles, pressing sloppy kisses over Hanzo’s cheek bones and the grey in his hair. “What do the French call it? A little death?” 

 

“You suspect that the French I know is vulgar?” Hanzo pulls the waistband of McCree’s underwear down below his balls, leaving one last kiss to Jesse’s throat before he stands up straight.. 

 

“It ain’t vulgar,” Jesse says, eyes eyes glassy as Hanzo lifts one of his knees to lock over a shoulder. “It’s poetic, isn’t it?”

 

“What do you care for poetry, Jesse McCree,” Hanzo snorts, keeping a firm grasp of Jesse’s vertical thigh with his right hand. With the left he takes Jesse in hand once more, watching his lips part with a groan. 

 

“Don’t - I ain’t got the brain power to -”

 

“You wish me silent?”

 

Jesse huffs, his eyes creased at the corners in such a way that Hanzo feels a sudden burst of warmth in his chest. “Nah honey. I just can’t f-fire up the ol’... uh…” He curses quietly, trailing off as Hanzo holds his cock upright and leans down to drag his tongue over the blood-dark head. “I’m gonna die here,” he croaks, shaggy head tipping back so carelessly that it thumps into the wall. He curses again, but doesn’t care to lift his skull back up.

 

As Hanzo pillows his lips around no more than the tip of Jesse’s cock, he reaches down with his free hand past stretched denim and cotton. If anything, this angle is more awkward than before, but Hanzo manages even so to encircle the crease of Jesse’s inner thigh with his left hand and press his thumb behind Jesse’s balls. 

 

“Chrissakes,” Jesse grunts, lifting his hips. It restricts the movement of Hanzo’s left hand, but he opens his jaw, taking more of him in. “Oh, honey, I’m -”

 

Hanzo rolls his tongue around the fat head and Jesse is the one who chokes. “Been a while, baby, I’m gonna -”

 

Hanzo pulls himself down Jesse’s cock as far as he can - which not terribly much, but Jesse seems more than appreciative of the effort. The scent of the apartment that had lain dormant under the smell of good cooking is darker here, headier than the smell of Jesse’s skin, and - and Hanzo smells oregano when he rubs against his perineum and bobs his head, and Jesse clutches him with a shout. 

 

He licks his lips when he comes up, pressing the back of a wrist to the corner of his mouth. 

  
  
  
  
  


“You were right,” he says, shaking his head as he presses it to Jesse’s naked hip. When a prosthetic lands on his shoulder, he knows he’s shaking with laughter.    
  


“‘Bout what?” Jesse asks. His good humor must be infectious; Hanzo can hear the smile in his voice. It only spurs another snort from Hanzo.

 

"We should have swept up the oregano."

  
  
  
  


The centerpiece of Jesse's bedroom is a large bed swathed in rust red bedding. Jesse steps up behind him where he stands in the doorway, and a prosthetic hand slides up his spine before he takes the bag from Hanzo's shoulder. "The bed's awfully captivatin', isn't it."

 

"I am admiring how neatly it is made," answers Hanzo. He watches Jesse settle the satchel atop his dresser with a quiet chuckle.

 

"Yeah. Caught some habits in the military that're harder to kick than to keep."

 

Jesse has never mentioned his service before, and Hanzo does not recall any military memorabilia on the living room shelves crammed with science fiction and misshapen terra cotta pots. So he does not pry further. Jesse will reveal what he wishes in his own time, but Hanzo knows a thing or two about buried pasts and what it costs to unearth them.

 

Instead, he digs for a change of clothes and his toothbrush, sidestepping Jesse's grabby hands on his way to the bathroom. It isn't long after, dabbing paste on his brush, that he's joined by a man hopping out of his pants. "Gonna need another shower now," he grunts, pulling off one sock after he other. Through the mirror Hanzo eyes up his barrel chest, down to his furred stomach.

 

"Do not let me stand in your way."

 

His gaze is not subtle, and McCree gives him a bawdy wink as he steps out of his underwear and into the shower.

 

By the time Hanzo has brushed his teeth and changed into his night clothes, Jesse steps out of his quick shower. He startles Hanzo into a grapple, locking Hanzo’s back up against his chest. Forced to watch himself struggle in the mirror, Hanzo locks eyes with himself as Jesse’s soaken beard.    
  
“Jesse McCree, I am - what are you -”

 

“I’m real glad you’re here.”

 

Lips parted in surprise, Hanzo finds that he can no longer look himself in the eye. He drops them, yielding to the burly arms around him. 

 

“I would be more pleased if I were not soaking wet,” he mumbles, lifting a hand to touch McCree’s prosthetic. He tilts his head to the side when he feels Jesse’s lips part and suction around his sensitive neck - and flinches when he blows a raspberry there, deafening within the confines of the bathroom walls. 

 

He jumps when Jesse moves away, slapping his ass in passing as he leaves the bathroom, dripping wet and totally nude. His voice echoes from the hall as he croons, “Let’s see if we can’t change that!”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing a high fantasy comic about a wandering bard! [Check it out from the beginning HERE!](https://bardbouquet.tumblr.com/post/179195348759/a-dwarven-heirloom-a-blade-in-the-dark-and-a)
> 
> Inquire about fic reque$ts [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Tumblr: [wardencommando](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).  
> 


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